It's All Black
by Irrational-Situations
Summary: He's lost her, everything that he loved about her, everything that she made him feel is gone. There's no way to get it back. Rated wholly for the language; it's brief, but it's still bad enough and I'd rather not get a story deleted over language again.


"It's All Black"

~Clintasha~

* * *

The left side was always colder than the right, but no matter how many times he tried to roll towards the center, he couldn't bring himself to lie in that spot. His hand grazed over the sheet, the faint indentation of where her body once rested beside his, then balled into a fist as he rolled onto his back; a heavy sigh escaped his lips.

It's been weeks now and nothing seems to be getting any better for him. His every day routine went on the same, as best as it could, but how could it be the same without her? The way she looked at him, softly as if she thought he didn't notice; the way her fingers grazed the nape of his neck as they just sat there talking about whatever. He could talk to her about anything, but now he might as well go share his feelings with a stranger. She wasn't coming back. There was no way to bring her back, no matter how hard he tried.

...

He could still see it: the way that she crumpled against the soaked asphalt; her blood quickly mingling with the rain stained street. Her gun fell a few feet away from her, from her fallen body whose strangled cry was silenced by the gunshot, but he had the satisfaction of creating the cry that escaped her attacker as that man fell down, not as lucky as her. He fell to his knees by her body and pulled her up, cradling her on his lap. Within a split second he knew he'd never have his Natasha back.

She was so beautiful too, whether or not she tried. Her hair was red, like freshly picked strawberries and always smelled just as sweet, and her eyes were like two crystal blue mirrors that could be hard like diamonds but just as fragile as glass all the same. She was always so cold, even if she never felt it, but the way her skin felt against his was magical. He could hold her for hours, with his strong arms wrapped around her smaller form, with her in between his legs with her eyes glued down at a book or sipping her cup of black coffee, which he'd never understand how she took it so strong, something to keep her occupied or he'd never get her to sit still. She was wild, unpredictable; he never knew if she would get up and leave one day. She warned him that she would, to not get too attached to her, but he was never really great at taking orders anyway.

When he told her that he loved her, she stared at him for a good long moment and told him that he shouldn't. He just chuckled and brushed that off, pulling her in to kiss her lovingly, just as his words had said. As always, she would kiss him back, her actions much better at conveying how she felt than her words. She was a stupendous actress, but facing reality was something she couldn't do. Not when it came to facing her emotions. He loved her regardless of all that. Regardless of her never telling him that she loved him too, he knew that she did because the way that she looked at him, she kissed him, she held him; that was all the proof that he needed.

...

Now her side of the bed was empty. The left side where she remained curled up for the first ten minutes of trying to fall asleep, before she broke the border and laid her arm over his torso was now cold and haunting. It teased him, to look over at the other side of the too-large bed for just one person, a person who refused to break the border, as if it reveled in the hilarity of the fact that the woman he loved, who slept there, no longer was. That the look on her face when she stared at him, or the warmth he felt despite her cold skin when she hugged him, or that spark he felt when she kissed him was never coming back.

"Fuck you," He moaned to the darkness, to the flittering blinds that wavered back and forth against the early autumn wind; to the star sprinkled sky like little lightening bugs calling out to their mates who would find them regardless of where they were. "F-fuck you."

He rolled over with his back facing the left side, but that didn't do him any good. He knew no one was there behind him; no one curled up against his back to kiss his shoulder. It was quiet because she was not there to whisper to him, to ask if he's still awake, or what he's thinking.

"I'm thinking about you." He said: emphasis on the final word. "Always about you."

Sock clad feet met the tar colored floor, and then moved as if they really were stuck in some sticky black substance. He didn't know how much more of this he could take until he broke; until he fell to the floor like Natasha's body against the street, face first against the hardwood floor of the hallway, or the lightly padded steps to the staircase. How much longer until he was gone too?

...

He remembered her strawberry hair glimmering in the sunlight of the beach for a split second until that large, goofy hat made its way onto her head. It was beige with a white border and a white, fake flower attached to the side of the roof. It covered her face, kept her in the shade, and she hit his arm when he made fun of her for it. That smile of hers outshined the sun; it was rare, but it was his favorite thing in the whole world. Her smile, her laugh; the way he could make her snort if she laughed too hard: all gone.

...

His fingers pinched the corners of his eyes, the bridge of his nose, as he ventured down the steps one foot at a time, still captured in the tar that molded around his feet. The only thing that kept in from falling down the steps completely was guidance from the kitchen light down the hall, around the bend, and his skilled fingers that gripped tight to the wood railing beside his hip.

Movement within the kitchen was what drew him closer, his feet pushing through the tar with more ease until he made it to the doorway. She wore a long, pale blue robe undone over her pajamas as she stood in front of the coffee pot. One hip was raised and her hand cupped her elbow while she rested her chin against the knuckles of her free hand. Her face was readable, contemplative and impatient as she shifted her weight to her other foot. The scent of coffee filled the air and his nostrils as he watched her for a good solid moment.

"Couldn't sleep?" He asked, and it took all the effort he could muster into making his voice sound even, unbroken and awake.

It startled her, visibly; her head turning quickly that he nearly got whiplash by just staring at her, suddenly face-to-face with her hollow eyes. They watched him, scanned him as if he were a stranger, which he guessed, to her, he probably was. No matter how much time they spent together, no matter how long he's known her for; he was nothing but a stranger to her.

"No," She said, but there was something almost frightened about her tone, that he brushed off quickly as he took his seat at the kitchen table. "I… I haven't been sleeping well for a while."

"Me either," He admitted. His arms folded against the table as he leaned over a little more.

She was fidgety, her fingers never pausing as her arms rest at her side. When the coffee was done, she busied herself with that, staying quiet only to ask if he wanted a cup. He accepted.

...

Mornings usually went like this, though after the sun came up and including breakfast and kisses, with warm smiles just for him. She would say something teasing as he walked in the kitchen, undoubtedly hours after she woke up, and he would be too tired to come up with a response, so he let her win. She always scoffed at that, but would melt easily against his back after his arms found their way around her waist from behind.

...

"You don't know who I am, do you?" he asked, watching her settle into the chair farthest from him. Her behavior was unsettling, and it took all he had not to get sick right on the kitchen floor in front of her. Not to lose it all, whatever he still managed to maintain, and throw up all over the floor at her feet, as if that would somehow fix everything.

"I'm sorry."

"Clint," he said, forcing a smile on his face. It looked real, friendly; the smile of a stranger meeting someone for the first time.

"Natasha," She said back, though she said it like he must've knew, and took a sip from her coffee mug. Black. Like the tar spilling over the floor of his room and the staircase, like the blanket the lightening bug stars flickered against, she still took her coffee black.

* * *

**A/N: **My first, finished, attempt at Clintasha. I wanted to do something sad, with anything really, and this idea came to me suddenly- Probably because I've just been in a Clintasha mood. Anyway, I don't own the characters, just the plot; the usual.


End file.
